Religion and I have never really crossed paths. Sort of like the neighbour who lives diagonally across the road from you. You’re not really sure how many people live there, nor what their story is, but it’s fun to occasionally peer at them with your 300mm telescopic camera lens in between the closed blinds on your front window. Right?

Last sunday I attended a Christening/Baptism for a dear friend’s first child and gladly blew off my other plans to turn up early with Brett. My only expectation was that there was some magic trick with water to be carried out. Little did I know I was actually attending a regular church service and was going to spend the next almost-2 hours watching a parade of improvised performances including one from an old man who asked us to pray for “the mourning dead families.” I almost put up my hand to point out the inherent problems with that statement when I realised there was only one exit (intention?) and I wasn’t well placed to make a quick exit should things turn less than Christian. During the bible reading I discovered that apparently it was all about expositional writing in those days. Perhaps the desire to provide a paint a picture with words was considered unholy when the only writing implement was two rocks and a plate of stone. It wasn’t until we cracked through a few of Hillsong’s greatest hits and looked around to see a lot of mouths that at least pretended to know the words that I realised I was not amongst my usual folk.

The Christening/Baptism/Wet Baby process was nice, but I wouldn’t have been too thrilled that the whole thing was billed as “an illustration of God’s ways”. My friend’s weren’t even listed under “Also Starring”, though I’d hesitantly suggest they had more to do with their own little production than the starring attraction.

At the end of the session, by which point I was finding the phrase “Let’s Pray” significantly less humorous than at the beginning, the collection plate was passed around. While it moved past me faster than Judas’ betrayal, Brett was swept up in the emotion of singing “Jesus Is A Really Good Name” enough to empty his wallet onto the tray (an act for which it took him several hours to repent).

As I noted later on during the catered lunch, if there is one thing religion has given this world, it’s really great moustaches. If there are two things, the second is a catered lunch.

I had just taken off the last of my clothes and folded my underwear onto the lip of the bathtub (stay with me), when I turned around and let out a silent shriek. At least the intention of the shriek was there, I was just too scared to make any noise. A big hairy spider was perched on the wall just near me just watching the show.

Spiders and I have never gotten along. I remember one incident of being in the car with my parents when I was younger and having a large spider crawl onto the outside of my window. I took this as my cue to start screaming like someone was being axe murdered in front of me, cowering as far away as possible until we stopped the car and got rid of it. In fact, it was almost identical to the time my parents decided to try out the drive through car wash machine, in response to which I excavated long-buried fears of drowning into a dazzlingly outward display of utter terror. My displays of fear might now be more inhibited, but rest assured I am still no fan of the friendly neighbourhood spider. I even took my year 6 teacher, Mrs. Karas’ advice to study and learn about my fear to overcome it but alas, the blown-up, colour illustrations of the hairy underbellies of spiders only worsened the situation.

Back in the present, if I was left to my own devices, I probably would have cleared the bathroom of anything which might serve as a hiding ground for Harry (or Harriet), had a few stern words with it along the lines of “I’m going to bed now, and I don’t want to see you here in the morning”, turned off the light, closed the door, stuffed towels in the gaps and foregone a shower for the night. Instead I fetched the assistance of my mother who went and got the bug spray. Instantly I realised I really didn’t mean to put a hit out on this spider. I would have been much happier if ‘H’ had got one whiff of the spray and quickly retreated into the roof through his entry point: the exhaust fan. Once my mum say it she too didn’t want to kill it and decided to start chasing it around the wall with a plastic tupperware bowl.

It was clearly petrified with its fast movements and possibly injured with it’s one droopy leg. I suggested we open the window and get it between the glass and the flyscreen. By “we”, I mean “she”. I even suggested “we” put “our” hand on the bit of metal one inch from the spider in order to pull down the window pane. Eventually ‘H’ got the message and climbed out, but much to my sadness it is quite possibly the only flyscreen on the many many windows of this house that doesn’t have puppy-sized gaps in it.

I went back to my shower but couldn’t stop thinking of poor ‘H’ with his droopy leg and (not so friendly) smile trapped between cold, oddly-lit glass and the taut black webbing teasing him with freedom.

In an ideal world, I would have opened the window, ‘H’ would have made a fast but cautious walk directly for the exhaust vent in the roof and I would have my shower knowing ‘H’ had told his friends, “Nothing to see here.” Instead, our fear of one another stripped me of my humanity and designated him a shortened life of torture and all I got was this tawdry metaphor.

I’m currently riding a wave of notoriety at work after my home cooked brownies were a smash hit at our monthly morning tea, making grown women crumble. All day I had people asking me if I had any more brownies (my team took most of them, including private stashes), and there have been plenty of requests for more. I had an email from one of the people on my interview panel inquiring about the recipe and word started spreading to the other super funds. At least it’s going somewhere to repair the damage after my homemade shortbreads tasted like sand (though even the Scottish woman on my team ate a few).

I’ve programmed the music for the radio programme this weekend, so I’m off to bed for a spot of Murder, She Wrote (which will be the first time I’ve watched in quite a while), and a reasonably early night. Bring on the weekend, even if it is mostly booked up with non-social events already.

Greg and I went road tripping to the Parramatta Record Fair today. We also saw two queens, but they weren’t specifically of the floating variety.

After venturing to the Collectables Fair two years ago, I was pretty sure that we’d find gold at least within the people who frequent these things. Sadly, this time there was no costume donning, but the bootleggers all wore their uniform of all black and a baseball cap. Whilst I was browsing someone’s collection a fellow came up to the stall owner and asked “So what have you got for me?” The seller leapt into action “Fresh, just in from Japan. Haven’t shown it to anyone else,” as he took the CD out of the paper holder with something unreadable scribbled on it. He held it up to the light with both hands as if displaying fine jewelry. “Haven’t seen one like it for a while”. The prospective buyer’s head ducked and weaved as he made sure he saw the light hit it from every angle. “Japan, you say? Hrm, okay then.” “Excellent choice. Three dollars please.” It could only have been more perfect if the seller had a jeweler’s glass and the buyer had a monocle.

One of the drawbacks of these gala events is the air circulation. Put simply, not enough. The smell of one man made my eyes water. It took me back to a day on the bus when a man had secretions that only the devil himself could have concocted and injected into his pores. It was at this point that a terrifying thought struck me: My fingers have been flicking through hundreds of CDs and records that these very same men had been contaminating all day, long before I had arrived to see the worst of it. I was paralyzed by the thought for some considerable time, and it was a while before I had to courage to even flick through the soundtracks sections (which, I figured, would have the least abused fingers scraping DNA across them).

Whilst Greg made shady under the table deals to obtain the latest Beatles bootlegs, I picked up quite a few bargains, including Australian cast recordings of La Cage aux Folles, Annie and They’re Playing Our Song on vinyl.

Afterwards we headed over to Westfield to grab some lunch. We chose a sandwich shop run by an Asian man who was every Asian character ever played by Peter Sellers combined and a Germanic woman who frightened us over and over. I kept getting nervous each time I asked for an ingredient and she would reply in an angry slur, “Of course you do.” When some small children starting making noise she said (or at least we think she said) “If they were mine, I’d take them home, lock them in a cupboard and pour scalding water on them.” Busy day, then? Greg had problems of his own when the man asked him “Father and son?”, referring to us. “Uhhh… not exactly” Greg replied before turning to me and saying “If you blog that I’ll slit your throat.”

It was a fun day, but if you’ll excuse me, I have to create a Facebook group called “If that security alarm goes off when I walk out of here, you’re giving it to me for free.”

I’ve been discussing the prospect of moving out with my parents, something my mother cannot understand because living in the same house as my parents must simply be heaven on earth. Nevermind the fact that my mother moved out of home when she was 15 because “that was different - my parents were annoying.” Can you imagine how hard it is to settle on just one thing to say after being offered that line?

After a slight ‘altercation’ on friday night between myself and my parents (I made a joke about how boring cricket was, my father cracked the shits, I told him he was rude (yes, I actually said ‘rude’)), I think my parents were trying to make amends by offering to take me down to Domayne, a furniture and home electricals store to spend a $50 I had. This isn’t the kind of store I’d normally shop at on account of the heavily inflated prices simply because they arrange the stock they have in colour groups so as to appear as if it has been “designed”, but I had the voucher to spend.

After struggling to find a toaster under $70, I decided to find a rice cooker and vegetable steamer and go on our merry ways. I had the option of an older stock model for $43 or the current stock for $55. As the only difference was the colour (white vs stainless steel, which is a real pain to keep clean), I went for the older model and walked up to the counter. While standing in line, my parents held a typically detailed conversation about which model I really should have chosen with insightful comments like, “Wasn’t the top clear on the other one?… No, it was aluminium…. What about the buttons? Were they rounder?”

When we reached the counter after a considerable wait (and don’t worry, there was plenty of loud commentary about that), my mother tried to buy a $5 gift card, but it wouldn’t work in combination with the gift card. The overwhelmed but kind-spirited cashier was trying to get through the line as quickly as possible and my mother was not helping. I was more than happy to forego the $7, but my parents were not. Cue a $7 shopping spree through the electrical department of Domayne as the three of us spread out in different directions to find something under $7. Batteries? $12. Ipod cover? $30. Blank CDs? $18. Finally my parents grabbed a ream of paper ($6.95) and joined the line again. A few moments later, after seemingly handing over all my personal details, we walked back through the shop to the car with a rice cooker and a ream of paper.

I thought the nightmare of shopping with my parents was over. I couldn’t foresee the row of electronic massage chairs lining the path to the exit. Imagine my horror while my parents try out each one multiple times discussing each one like there was a remote chance they put the $6000 on their credit card and walk out with one of those monsters of leather and fake wood-panelling strapped to the roof of the Volvo (also with the leather and fake wood-panelling). At one point, when all the machines were bulging and thrusting, it looked like the scene from Are You Being Served when Mr Humphries puts the chattering teeth down the underpants of one of the mannequins, except as if this was David Jones’ stocktake sale. When my parents, who had no hope of reading the small screens in front of them started pressing buttons making one machine continuously beep, I knew it was all over.

After what I suspect was supposed to be an operation to encourage me to stay home at least until the year is over, all I could think about in the car on the way home is how long it will take me to pack my things. At least I’ll have rice and some paper to write my recipe on.